


Oceans

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Gen, Ocean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 03:13:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15039428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “You can hear them calling, don’t you?You just don’t want to listen.”





	Oceans

He really doesn't know how he even got here, bruised and bare beneath a blue comforter with an arm hanging over the edge of the bed with another arm, his lover's arm, draped over his neck. It's a little heavy, but he does not move it. He feels the subtle warm breath of his significant other on his shoulders but he feels rather cold instead.

He moves a bit.

His lower back protests, shooting a sharp pain up his spine, but Alfred doesn't seem to care. The arm that was once over his nape then falls when he sits up, landing just short of his thigh. He looks at the hand, large and calloused, before taking a short glance at his skin.

Disgusting, he thinks to himself, a thumb brushing over the black and blue bruise that stares angrily up at him. His eyes scan over the rest of his frail figure, once so strong, and notice that there are more than just bruises littering his fair skin. Some cuts mar it, some bites here and there. It's hideous, and Alfred can't seem to get used to the sight of it.

It's so ugly and yet his own fingers are hungry to make creations of their own.

He refrains, keeping his hand shut into a tight fist. His teeth clenches and his eyes squeeze shut. Alfred senses movement behind him, a cold hand creeping its way around his waist. My not-so-small waist, he thinks, sucking in his breath when the familiar hand stills just above his belly, fat fat fat Alfred.

He really isn't.

"Good morning, cолнышко," he hears a groggy voice greet him. Alfred continues to hold his breath, his hands fussing with one another in his lap. The weight of them hurts a little on his pained legs, but he keeps them there. Not wanting to anger the other, he just stays still. He knows that Ivan didn't like conversation in the morning. So he sits there. No movement, no breathing.

"No response?" Alfred's heart stammers against his dry throat as the bed sinks further behind him, the Russian beginning to rise with him. With the sudden added weight, he falls back into the chest of his lover and an arm much larger than his own comes from around his torso. The calloused hand clamps around his throat and he is cut off from air.

It's okay, he thinks, it'll be okay.

I'll be just fine.

"I expect a response when I'm speaking to you," Ivan snarls through gritted teeth and yet he can hear a smile in the words he says. Alfred swallows dryly and he feels his eyes well up in tears once again, the choking feeling in his chest being oh-too-familiar by this point. He feels constricted, not only because of his lover's tight grasp on his neck but because of the tightening sensation in his heart.

He thinks it hurts a little too much now.

"I-I-I'm s-sorry, I just didn't w-want to make y-you a-angry..!" Alfred manages to breathe out and the hand that pains him lets go, allowing him to inhale much needed oxygen. The American can feel his skin turning purple from where the fingers had dug themselves.

But the hand does not leave him alone for long. A sharp pain connects with his cheek, a slap or a punch (he doesn't know anymore), and Alfred still refuses to cry. Fingers interlock with his golden locks and he clenches his teeth before he is violently shoved to the ground, his shaking palms and face hitting the cold wooden surface.

Alfred still refuses to cry.

And yet his cheeks are wet with tears.

"I-I'm sorry..." he says but his lover does not reply. He remains there on the floor, bare and bruised, while Ivan silently leaves the room, slamming the door behind him.

With aching arms, Alfred gets up and limps to the bathroom, quietly shutting and locking the door behind him. He sniffles as he runs a bath, the water rushing out from the faucet and onto the porcelain tub. As it fills, Alfred stares at his reflection in the mirror.

So ugly, he thinks, his eyes running over the hideous marks that marred his light skin. There are numerous bites along his neck and shoulder as well as bruises near his sharp hipbones. His eyes are bloodshot and tears stain his cheek. His left one is reddening. So fucking ugly.

He cries more, even though he told himself that everything was going to be just fine. He cries more, even though he loves Ivan so much more than he loves himself and he's happy to just be with him. He cries more, even though he's living under a nice roof with everything he needs to survive.

He cries more, because he doesn't know what to do anymore.

His heart just wants to burst.

Alfred stops the water when the tub almost fills to the brim. He steps in, the water so cold that it burns his skin, but he lets himself sink into it. Water is up to his neck and he brings his arms up to his arches knees. He scrubs at them, wanting to get rid of his lover's touches and rough kisses. He scrubs until he can't feel anymore. Until he's numb.

A drop of blood falls into the clear water, creating ribbons of red that dance in the stillness.

He closes his eyes and thinks. He has sunken further into the tub, the water now covering his chapped lips. Alfred thinks about how he misses seeing the sea. Ivan doesn't allow him to leave his home, their home, anymore. He misses being with Arthur and (though he hates admitting it) Francis, wishing that they still walked along white sand beaches as a trio. He misses smelling the ocean breeze and the feeling of the sun's embrace.

All he's ever felt is cold and alone.

Further in he goes.

Somehow, he feels as though there are waves crashing around him. He thinks he's submerged in the beloved sea that he hasn't seen in months. Alfred can almost taste the salt that enters his parted lips. The water enters his ears and nose and it it feels as though he is on fire. His lungs and throat are burning, ignited by the inhaled ocean, but Alfred doesn't let himself come up to see the sun. It's comforting, as crazy as it seems.

He misses the ocean.

The blonde hears someone pounding at the bathroom door. He hears his name being called from behind the barrier but he does not respond. No matter what he does, he will face the wrath from his beloved Ivan, who he loves so much more than himself. He has grown too afraid of him now.

So he lets the water enter his system, his lungs, his entirety. He can't tell the difference between his tears and the cold liquid as his chest heaves in so much pain. It hurts too much.

It just fucking hurts now.

He loves Ivan more than he loves himself, and so he decides to exit the stage...

And face endless oceans instead, never rising from the waters again


End file.
